


Bare One's Soul

by Felgia_Starr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Dark, F/M, Gift Fic, Oral Sex, Scholomance, Sort Of, Soulmates, Voodoo, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felgia_Starr/pseuds/Felgia_Starr
Summary: Ten creatures around the world have been chosen to study at Scholomance to become the most glorious warlock the world has ever seen. There, Hermione meets Draco Malfoy of the Purebloods, the most infuriating boy she's ever put her eyes on and the only one with whom she feels a connection.What happens when they bare their souls to each other?





	Bare One's Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/gifts).



> Thank you so much to BiscuitsForPotter for being gracious enough to beta for me! Love you, gurl!
> 
> this thing is really odd but also lowkey one of the best pieces i've ever written. enjoy the weird place that is my mind! :)

 

“Welcome to Hell, scholars!” A booming voice chuckles from the walls of the red, black, and seemingly bleeding castle.  
  
Hermione looks up the sky—or what is supposed to be the sky—and finds nothing but wet earth and stairs made out of rocks and thick mud above her. A gentle longing for the moon blossoms in her chest, prodding and poking against her heart, but she ignores it.  
  
The gates she entered from closed, overwhelming her ears with the sheer loudness of their rough push against the mud.  
  
The Oracles, basically the ones who run her home, told her that she’d been chosen for something great before they sent her off. She’s always been better than the other Soothsayers back home, and she wasn’t surprised when they told her she’s destined to be great, but she certainly didn’t expect _this._  
  
She looks around her peers in wonder. Nine _creatures_ surround her, and all of them are equally fascinating. They aren’t something she’s seen before; in fact, they’re all so different from what she can tell.  
  
A short brown-skinned girl with wide hips and full breasts catches her gaze and grins at her, waving a friendly hand. She wears jewellery on her body as clothing, and Hermione has never before seen a more lustrous woman than her.  
  
A greeting sits comfortably on Hermione’s tongue, but before she can say it, a man from behind the short woman steals her eyes.  
  
He wears white and red beads around his neck and wrists, a strange contrast against his dark green silken robes. His blond hair is short and cropped, indicating his abundance of wealth and time. His skin is white, almost glistening like his beads. He looks a little too close to what she imagines the moon to look like as a breathing creature.  
  
“Please step forward after I state your name,” the deep voice from around them commands, effectively startling her out of her intrusive and unwelcome thoughts. “Ronald Bilius Weasley of the Solomonari.”  
  
There is a tall, almost gigantic, man with red hair smiling proudly at the castle as he steps forward, wearing woollen robes as though it is already winter.  
  
When she hears the name and origin, Hermione cannot help the gasp that escapes her. The Solomonari are dragonriders and weather-weaving devotees of the Devil. Looking at Ronald Weasley’s red hair and tall figure, Hermione mentally curses herself. She should have known he’s a Solomonar.  
  
If the rumours are correct, however—Hermione thinks she can figure out where she is already.  
  
She must have been picked out by the Devil to study in this grim school, Scholomance, and the other nine creatures must be his scholars as well. If what they say in the ancient texts is accurate, then they are all—herself included—competing for the role of the Devil’s most prominent servant.  
  
Now, Hermione has never thought of herself as an evil enough person to feel pride at the thought of serving the Devil, but she loves competition.  
  
Occupied with her thoughts, Hermione only then realizes that five people (including the Weasley boy) have already been called and stepped forward.  
  
“Hermione Jean Granger of the Soothsayers,” the Devil growls, the sound of his voice as terrifying as the march of a thousand soldiers. “I do not like repeating myself.”  
  
Cheeks warming in humiliation as she realizes she’s also been called, she quickly steps forward, right next to the brown-skinned woman who smiled at her earlier.  
  
“Zacharias Smith of the Seventh Sons.”  
  
A man with sandy blond hair steps forward, his white robes shuffling. The Seventh Sons are gifted healers who live in the plains of the White Meadows, far away from her homeland, the Prophet’s Swamps.  
  
“Harry James Potter of the Humans.”  
  
A small barely-a-man Human steps forward, his hair as messy and strange as his clothing. Like all Humans, Harry Potter looks underwhelming and disappointing. Humans perceive themselves as divine beings, blessed to be above all other living things; more often than not, however, they are nothing but arrogant creatures, greedy for insignificant things like money or power.  
  
Looking at him, though, Hermione knows this not to be the case with Harry Potter.  
  
“Draco Malfoy of the Purebloods.”  
  
The blond man she was staring at earlier steps forward, his stride as arrogant as his expression. Purebloods think of themselves as absolute and holy, for they only practice the sanctified section of magic—life magic or more commonly called as _black_ and evil magic. She supposes she should’ve known he’s a Pureblood from the way he carries himself and from the way the surely-magical beads hang from his body.  
  
Purebloods often have the power to control others’ will using their strange mantras and unsuspecting dolls. Staring without abandon at Malfoy’s colourful beads around his wrist and long pale fingers, Hermione wonders what it would feel like to have her life playing under his palm.  
  
“Pansy Parkinson of the Faeries.”  
  
A girl with short black hair lifts her feet from the floor as her eyes fly around the room warily, her golden wings fluttering about in a surprisingly pleasant buzz. Her skin glows gold as well, like all Faeries, and it almost hurts to look at her. Like Soothsayers, the Faeries practice white magic. The Soothsayers’ main source of power comes from the moon and stars, however, while the Faeries get theirs from the sun.  
  
“You are the representatives of your races—the best of potentials and powers,” the Devil says, a growl underlying his voice. “You have been chosen solely for one reason—the Magic Circle nominated you to do my bidding as well as God’s. Here, you are given the opportunity to learn the most powerful of magic. Here, you can learn how to bend the Laws of Powers created by Merlin himself. After your seven-year course, a tournament shall be held for all ten of you, and whoever wins the said tournament will be the most glorious warlock the world has ever seen. During your stay here, you will not be allowed to leave. Darkness is all that you will practice here and darkness is all you should see. Despite that, Scholomance offers you knowledge, power, and magic. Will you graciously accept its offer?”  
  
Murmurs of ‘yes’ flitter across the courtyard, including Hermione’s. To have a library of ancient magic beneath her hand would be paradise, and the thought of winning amongst other races is extremely fulfilling—she is more than happy to learn and to compete and to _win._  
  
“Welcome to Scholomance, then, you pitiful creatures.” Gazing around curiously as the castle doors open, Hermione feels a craving in her chest—a craving to catch a glimpse of this Devil who dares to speak ill of his would-be servants. She wonders if he or she will look as ugly as the demons in the textbooks she often reads back home. Or will they look deceptively beautiful, will their actual voice be seductive and alluring and their eyes as damning as committing sins?  
  
Hermione Granger hopes to meet the Devil someday.

* * *

Hermione watches in amazement as Theodore Nott the Strigoi buries his fangs into the animal he just killed, draining the blood expertly and neatly. She’s always been taught that Strigoi are troubled spirits that know nothing but cause destruction, and she’s never imagined one of them to look as impeccable as Theodore Nott does.  
  
What are stereotypes but mere stereotypes? What is an over-generalized belief but unfair and cruel judgements?  
  
The Druids, whom she learned were to be their mentors, gave them an easy task for their first lesson; she, along with the other nine scholars, is expected to stand in the middle of the training grounds and present her abilities.  
  
This class unexpectedly fascinates Hermione. She has never before seen so many magical creatures in the same capacity without sensing some form of resentment. It’s amazing, truly, how powerful other beings are and how different the world would be if all of them only get along.  
  
Judging by this first and only class she’s ever been in, Hermione will have no problem gaining knowledge during her stay in Scholomance.  
  
Already, she learned from Ronald Weasley that the Solomonari are gifted a dragon egg at birth which they will dote on until its eventual hatching. She learned from Anthony Goldstein that without prayer, the magic of the Sons of God is useless. She learned from Hannah Abbott that the Amazons rely mainly on physical strength and that they only use magic for enhancing armour and weapons. She learned that Padma Patil, her newfound friend, and the Yakshini wield their magic by holding a _chauri_ in their right hand.  
  
She even learned from Harry the Human, who taught them his race holds no magic at all, and some brilliant minds in his home enhance ‘technology’ instead to make life just a bit easier.  
  
And now, it’s Draco Malfoy’s turn to show them his abilities. He makes his way to the middle of the field with a smirk on his face. The beads around his neck and wrists seem to double from yesterday’s white and red show. Now she sees at least six colours of beads on his person.  
  
She watches as he kneels over the dead goat Theodore killed earlier, sees his lips move as he gathers blood from the poor animal’s insides, and waits for his other hand that shoots inside his robes to come out.  
  
When it does, her eyes widen as she sees the small doll that’s clenched in his left hand, his right one slathering blood all over the doll. With a few more whispered spells, her jaw drops as the goat rises from its previously dead state and stare into her with black lifeless eyes.  
  
Hermione looks up and meets Draco’s proud gaze, a surprisingly pleasurable chill shooting up her spine. Thin tendrils of black magic curl around his hand, gradually and seemingly being swallowed by the doll as the goat makes the most terrifying screech, and she subconsciously licks her lips. His magic looks like slender serpents around his hand, and she feels a strange longing to connect it with hers.  
  
But then she remembers one particular detail she once read about the Purebloods and snaps out of her daze.  
  
“Isn’t necromancy outlawed in Salazar’s Hills?” she blurts out, effectively making everyone turn to look at her.  
  
Draco’s smirk quickly transforms into an ugly sneer, his silver gaze sharp and deadly. “We’re not in Salazar’s Hills, aren’t we, Soothsayer?”  
  
She swallows her embarrassment and looks at him dead in the eye. “Still, you should be respectful of your culture and tradition.”  
  
“Isn’t it a tradition not to be an outright idiot in your dirty marshes?” Malfoy snarls. She sees his fingers clench tighter around the doll, but the goat falls limp and dead once again. “Soothsayers are wise keepers of time, are they not? They have all the knowledge in the world right beneath their swamps. Did you eat a few funny mushrooms before coming here, is that it?”  
  
Hermione fumes, feeling the absentee moon start an angry fire in her heart. _Of course,_ a boy like him with attractive physical attributes would have a horrendous attitude. “ _I’m_ an idiot? What about you? You’re a Pureblood, and you apparently know nothing about Pureblood—”  
  
“That’s quite enough from the both of you,” Severus Snape, one of their mentors, speaks up. “And if you liked talking so much, Miss Granger, go ahead and take Malfoy’s place. Show us what you’re capable of instead of running your mouth when someone is showing me their magic.”  
  
She turns her glare towards her mentor but quickly glances away when he looks back at her, cheeks warming up in embarrassment. Two days in and she’s already been humiliated twice by her supposed superiors. “Sorry.”  
  
Snape ignores her mumbled apology. “Go on. Show us the future, Miss Granger.”  
  
She doesn’t bother correcting the Druid, doesn’t bother telling him that she can’t actually see into the future without the stars bestowing their powers on her.  
  
Standing up from her seat and walking towards where Malfoy was a few minutes ago, Hermione feels her shoulder brush against his as they walk past each other. She pretends she doesn’t feel the spark of lightning that runs through her entire right side as her bare skin meets his thick robes.  
  
Once she stands in the middle, she shuts her eyes in concentration, gathering the magic inside her body to form in her fists; she raises both her arms, feeling her feet being lifted from the ground by white magic; and she shoots her head up, her soul making its way up through the earth and to the night sky and getting a small pinch of the moon’s magic.  
  
She waits patiently as the moon’s magic forces itself into her body. Bit by bit, she gets a taste of the moon as it enters her psyche, her body strengthening—  
  
“If we were in a real fight, you’d be dead by now.” Malfoy’s voice cuts through her concentration, forcibly breaking her out of her process. Hermione’s feet meet the ground and the way the moon’s magic enters her is too rapid.  
  
It does not feel natural.  
  
“Mister Malfoy!” she hears McGonagall scold him. “Soothsayers require strict concentration to gain full access to their magical cores.”  
  
“It’s all right, Miss Minerva,” interrupts Hermione as she winces. It is not all right at all, under any circumstances. If Malfoy interrupted her process earlier, her soul just might be lost in the abyss forever.  
  
She forces her eyes open, leering into Malfoy’s dark grey ones, and penetrates his mind with her magic so quickly that he barely has enough time to realize it.  
  
Hermione prods his mind, searching for memories and experiences. She sees the utter gorgeousness of his home. She sees the many dolls he keeps underneath his bed, unbeknownst to his parents. She sees a dank place filled with recently-dead creatures of different kinds. She sees him control them all until they are forced back to the state of living once more.  
  
Then, she takes herself out of his mind, and in a monotone, she tells him, “You killed your third mentor and brought him back. Your father abused you throughout your entire childhood, and your mother never cared. You’ve always wished you can go to the Humanland, but something always stopped you. You killed—”  
  
“Shut up!” Malfoy growls, and she feels the rumble in his chest like it’s her own. Something cold and numb wraps itself around her head, and she soon realizes that—from the pleasurable trembling of her soul—it is his magic. He has his magic wrapped intimately around her, and strangely, she finds herself honoured. “Look into the future like every Soothsayer, you fucking bitch! Keep your disgusting white magic out of my mind!”  
  
His magic makes its way around her neck, getting tighter by the minute. Oddly, she doesn’t fear death; she doesn’t even contemplate the possibility of it. All she feels is blinding bliss slithering up her entire body, and all she can think about is what his magic feel like in between her—  
  
Everything stops.  
  
Her world halts, but she’s surely not dead yet. Not by Malfoy’s power, at least, for it has already left her. And his magic only knows how to pleasure her, anyway. Although he had every chance to kill her, he has never actually tried to even do her harm. Maybe he did try, and he’s just not very good at it. He’s just not good at being bad.  
  
“That’s it! Granger and Malfoy, both of you are going to the Devil’s Quarters tonight! No questions. No explanations. Get back inside!”  
  
Shit.

* * *

Hermione glares at Malfoy’s stupid smug face as he drags Pansy by the arm inside the Devil’s Quarters with him, her magic awakening a fire inside of her. Only he can ignite such passionate emotions within her. Only he can get her this fucking angry without saying anything. Only Draco fucking Malfoy can make her lose her damn mind.

Earlier this morning, the Druids alerted them about Pansy’s disappearance. Apparently, Pansy didn’t go back to her bedchamber after supper, and she’d been missing since. Having formed a semi-amiable relationship with the Faerie, Hermione was worried and wanted to have her found instantly.  
  
When the Devil heard of the incident, however, he turned the whole thing into a competition, telling them that whoever gets to find Pansy first will have a private lesson with him. Hermione Granger has been wanting to see the Devil ever since she came here—of course, she wanted to win.  
  
But she _didn’t_ win. She’s been working hard all day to find clues, to get a sense of the moon’s wisdom, but all it took for Malfoy to find her was some cloth with Pansy’s menstrual blood in it and one of his stupid ugly dolls.  
  
Maybe she should turn her back on white magic and practice black magic instead. That way, maybe she can finally get a fucking break.  
  
“I’m sure you’ll win next time, Hermione,” Padma comforts from beside her, sitting on the ground like usual.  
  
It doesn’t help that Pansy Parkinson is half in love with Malfoy already and practically wants to be possessed by him anyway.  
  
“It’s just infuriating that he acts like he’s better than everyone here.” Hermione sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
Padma looks extremely bright in her golden jewellery, golden sheer skirts, and golden smile. “He is quite arrogant, isn’t he?”  
  
Hermione scoffs. “More than quite.”  
  
“And you dislike him very much, don’t you?” Padma’s smile widens.  
  
“I _loathe_ him.”  
  
“He must be a most intriguing treasure to you.”  
  
Hermione frowns, slightly taken aback by her friend’s odd words. “What? He’s—”  
  
The Devil’s voice from the castle walls cuts her off before she can finish her sentence. “I would like to say my congratulations to Draco Malfoy of the Purebloods for bringing Pansy Parkinson of the Faeries back safely. You’ve earned my thanks, Mister Malfoy. Well done. You’re turning out to be my best pupil yet. And well done to all of you, infernal creatures, for surviving a year in Scholomance. ”  
  
She sighs in defeat, exhaustion finally keeping up with her. She’s starting to accept the fact that she won’t get to see the Devil just yet. “I’m going back to my chambers now, Padma. Do you want to come with me?”  
  
Padma shakes her head, still smiling. “I need to connect with the earth. You had a tiring day. Go ahead and take a rest. Goodnight.”  
  
“Night,” she grumbles, still frustrated with the fact that Draco Malfoy won instead of her.  
  
On the way to the West Tower, Hermione can’t help but think of what she could’ve done right to get to Pansy first. She teamed up with Padma, thinking that her treasure-obsessed friend would be a great addition since they were searching for something lost, and Padma has always been good at granting everyone whatever they desire; Hermione thought that maybe if she wished hard enough, Padma would just conjure Pansy out of nowhere.  
  
Maybe Padma is a useless toy who does nothing all day but guard nonexistent buried treasure. Maybe she should have teamed up with Nott instead since he’s all too familiar with Pansy’s scent. Maybe she should have teamed up with Malfoy—maybe she should have not bothered to even look for the vapid Faerie.  
  
Pansy does nothing but complain, anyway! She and Malfoy can go rot in Hell, for all Hermione cares! In fact, she’ll gladly throw them there!  
  
“Are you angry with me, Granger?”  
  
She startles as she hears Malfoy’s sickening voice out-of-the-blue, but her soul seems to be throwing a feast at the mere impatient taps of his feet. “I’m always angry at you, Malfoy. You summon nothing but pure hatred within me.”  
  
She hears him chuckle in amusement, and suddenly, every bit of her fury is back. “Well, I’m glad I keep your life interesting, Granger.”  
  
“How did you find her?”  
  
Malfoy chuckles once more in that infuriating way of his. “Magic.”  
  
“Why are you still talking to me?” asks Hermione through gritted teeth. “As a matter of fact, why are you even heading this way? Your bedchamber, I recall, is located in the other part of the castle.”  
  
“I wanted to see you.”  
  
Completely ignoring the way he sends her soul running with his words, Hermione forces a cruel laugh out of her lips. “Last I knew, you’d rather sell your soul than to see me.”  
  
She hears him shuffle behind her, and all of a sudden, he’s right behind her, his lips brushing against her ear and his hand gently pushes at the lowermost part of her back. “I’d sell my soul to _you._ ”  
  
Her soul ignites as she lets out a gasp, white magic escapes her bloodstream and burns her skin. It is the single most pleasurable thing she’s ever felt. “That’s not—that’s good to know, Malfoy, but I don’t… no one wants your dark soul.”  
  
Somehow, she feels his magic coming out of his body as well, intermingling with her own as they form a protective cave around them.  
  
“Not even you?” he asks, breathless and husky. She closes her eyes and throws her head back, resting it on his shoulder, as she releases her soul from her body to meet with his. The moment his soul grabs hers with cold and dark arms, Hermione’s knees tremble, and her eyes shoot open. “Don’t you feel it?”  
  
Smooth threads of his black magic wrap around her arms and legs and overwhelming spheroids of her white magic encase Draco’s body as well.  
  
And finally, they are connected.  
  
But how?  
  
It is not the first time they’ve done this, but usually, when their souls clash beautifully, it is accidental and filled with rage. This time is different. This time feels like Heaven and Hell at the same time. This time, it’s right.  
  
She feels his arms wrap around her stomach, and she’s starting to think that once he lets go of her, she won’t be able to breathe.  
  
All of it is confusing her. There is nothing she hates in the world more than him, but he’s the only one who can make her feel so complete.  
  
“Why?” she breathes, eyes wide open as she watches their magic coexist. “Why do we feel like this?”  
  
“It feels good.” Draco presses his lips on her neck, latching on and kissing her skin. “That’s enough for me to do it.”  
  
Hermione decides his reassurance is enough for her to do _it_ as well. Whatever he meant.

* * *

“Granger, Malfoy, get in here!”  
  
Hermione’s eyes meet Draco’s instantly from across the room. As per usual, he looks smug and mildly annoying, a tad bit of excitement glinting in his eyes, but she’s the one who sends him an overconfident smirk.  
  
“I will not repeat myself.” The Druid’s words are enough to send Hermione’s feet walking towards the middle of the courtyard.  
  
Ever since their second year in Scholomance, the Druids have been conducting a fortnightly duel among the students. Oddly enough, during those years of duelling, Hermione and Draco have never been paired against each other—until now.  
  
Knowing she’ll win against him, Hermione stands confidently, her head held up high and her chin raised. She knows she’s the best damn student in this school, and she plans to win. Draco can go do his strange Vodou rituals, but he’ll never win against her. Not again, at least.  
  
“Begin!”  
  
With Snape’s word, Hermione projects her soul up in the air, swiftly borrowing magic from the moon in one millisecond before shoving it inside of Draco’s head to try and predict his next attack. Since her first year, she’s been getting quicker and quicker at this soul magic.  
  
Draco pushes out his open palm at her direction, unleashing his black magic into her. She dodges it with one quick hop sidewards, forcing her soul to corrupt his, but before white magic spreads throughout his body, Draco releases his soul out as well as dragging her own with it.  
  
An electric jolt crawls up her spine every time their souls clash against each other. She tries to will her soul to do some permanent damage to his, but their psyches seem to be madly in love with each other, refusing to harm each other in the air.  
  
No matter. She knows she can win against Draco without the help of her traitorous soul.  
  
Rapidly, she throws spheres of white magic in his way. Thin slivers of his black magic wrap around each and every sphere, and as soon as their magic make contact, they mix with each other and explode into a beautiful golden flare.  
  
It’s like she’s in a great hurry; the magic that shoots out of her hand is quick and could’ve been deadly if Draco stops countering it.  
  
Their back-and-forth goes on for a while until Draco summons a black shield around him, beginning to cast something she knows is darker than the night sky.  
  
But before he can finish his mantra, Hermione sends him a ray of her white magic, knocking him out of his feet and causing him to land a bit harshly on the ground.  
  
She smiles at the stunned expression on his face.  
  
_I win._ _  
_

* * *

When Malfoy smoothly dips her body downward, it takes all of Hermione’s strength not to strangle him. When he twirls her for the hundredth time today, she feels her knees and feet giving up on her exhausted weight, but Draco’s hold keeps her standing and dancing.

The two of them must have been under this stupid dance spell for hours now—ever since they got into a fight mid-class and completely obliterated Hannah’s project, which she’s been working on for months.  
  
McGonagall thought it fitting for them to be punished by the same spell they fought over.  
  
It doesn’t matter, Hermione thinks. Dance magic is absolute shit, anyway. Who wants to move their hips around just to get something done? It’s stupid and unnecessary—there are other several ways to conjure something from nothing without doing stupid things like dancing.  
  
“Stop sweating, Granger!” Draco growls, his breath fanning her face. He smells lovely, even after hours of perspiring. “You’re making my hands wet!”  
  
Hermione shuts her eyes, attempting to mute the sound of his voice. Normally, her soul would be all in love with everything Malfoy does, but this day is not normal. She doesn’t _feel_ normal, and she just so badly wants to rest.  
  
“Are you seriously sleeping on me right now?” He sounds further away now, like he’s screaming on top of his lungs from the next room. “I swear to the fucking Devil, Granger, if you fall asleep, I’ll cut off your soul.”  
  
She ignores his threat and continues dancing until she’s half-asleep from exhaustion.  
  
“You think I won’t?” She feels more than hears his words floating over her left ear, his lips closing around it.  
  
She opens her mouth to answer him in incoherent sleepy mumbles, but all of a sudden, something invades her psyche, causing her to jolt completely awake. When she realizes it is Malfoy’s black soul penetrating her white walls, she utters a quick, “Fuck.”  
  
“We’ve been moving around each other for three years now, Granger,” he states in a suppressed whimper, his eyes affecting her more than the entity already inside her. “I’ve had enough of it.”  
  
“Fuck you,” she breathes as their souls join together as one once again. There is no word in existence to explain how well his soul fits hers. She is not eloquent enough to explain the pure bliss she’s currently experiencing, and all she can think about is how amazing it is to have Draco Malfoy make her feel all sorts of things.  
  
“I’ve had enough of you distracting me, bothering me. I’ve had enough of constantly craving your presence. I think it’s time for you to disappear now.”  
  
His black magic surrounds her psyche, tightening by the minute, but her soul pulls away from his grasp to burst out every single powerful thing she has left.  
  
And not for the first time to happen with Malfoy around, everything stops.  
  
She falls. He follows her to the ground, cushioning her fall even. She feels her soul transcend from her body, but his soul remains inside her for some reason.  
  
It doesn’t take long for Draco to speak again.  
  
“We countered the spell.”  
  
He is correct, for they have stopped dancing. How did they stop the spell?  
  
Dance magic is different from other kinds of magic because the person who curses you with the said magic is the only person who can lift it from you. That’s why so many books in her home describe dance magic as ‘intimate.’  
  
Huh. It seems that she and Draco have accomplished the impossible. Somehow, Hermione knows this will not be the last time they’ll do so.  
  
She stares into his grey eyes—the closest thing to clouds she can find in this shithole of a school—and finally notices he is on top of her.  
  
“Why are you in me?” she whispers lowly, sensitive to the way his soul moves inside her like she’s its home.  
  
She watches in fascination as Draco gulps, shrugging. His neck is so pale, so white, and she can’t decide if she wants to decorate it with her lips or hands.  
  
“Get out,” she demands even as his soul seems to make itself comfortable, her lips barely moving to utter the words.  
  
“What about you?” His voice is husky and deep, practically molten butter across her skin. “Are you going to leave your soul with me? Do you trust me that much, Hermione?”  
  
Everything underneath her skin quivers from just listening to him say her name. Surely, the way he drags the syllables from his tongue should be punishable by law. Or maybe she’s the one who should be locked up. Surely, the way she’s already so… alive by his mere words and tone is a symptom of an unknown illness. Surely, a woman like her, who’s so absolutely mad for one man, isn’t stable enough to live amongst others without harming anyone?  
  
She can’t control herself anymore. She needs to—  
  
Hermione kisses him.  
  
And it is more refreshing than looking at the moon.  
  
He kisses her back, gripping fistfuls of her hair and making her scalp burn in pain.  
  
She wants him to hurt her more.  
  
Their lips move against each other like two swords clashing—kissing him is brutal, dirty, and utterly addicting. Every swipe of their tongues, every gnash of their teeth, every movement of their lips—they’re not enough to satiate her dark desires.  
  
She fears it will always be like this with him. She fears that no matter how many times she’ll have him or he’ll have her, she still won’t have her fill.  
  
Draco’s mouth reaches her neck, harshly pulling at her skin with his teeth. He runs his tongue along her throat, licking up to her chin until his lips are kissing hers again. For some reason, she wants to have his saliva all over her body. She wants him to make every inch of her skin wet using only his sinful mouth and afterwards, she would like to do the same to him.  
  
Fuck it. She doesn’t want to have her fill. All she wants at the moment is to drown in him. She wants to swallow all of him until all of him is embedded inside her. She wants to keep every part of him as hers. Fuck, she wants him.  
  
She doesn’t understand, but all she wants is him.  
  
And she swears by the moon and stars above her that she will not stop until she’s had all of him.

* * *

Peering through the window and longing to get a good look at the sky, Hermione feels sort of… dimmed. She has not seen the moon and the stars—or the sun or the clouds or the birds—in about four years now, and the lack of their presence leaves her almost empty inside.  
  
She turns her gaze to Draco who’s lying on his bed, weaving a piece of fabric into another doll of his. He is naked. He is beautiful. And most importantly, he is now hers.  
  
Or at least, that’s how she sees things. After last night—after their souls made homes out of each other’s bodies; after he hurt her so blissfully; and after she got a taste of his sweat, blood, and tears—Hermione looks at him in a different way, in a more appreciative way.  
  
He is a truly beautiful specimen. So pale, so pure, and so very like the surface of the moon she misses. She wonders if he’s genuinely a part of the moon itself. Maybe he was once a rock sitting on a crater until he was sent down to Earth. To change the world. To be with her.  
  
Watching as his hands move expertly to create his doll, Hermione shivers and for the millionth time, she wishes she’s a doll he can manipulate and use. She wants his magic all over and inside her body, using her limbs for his and speaking through her mouth with his words. She wishes she’s a reanimated corpse that lives again for one purpose—to do his bidding.  
  
After they used each other last night, her soul (which still uses Draco’s body as its vessel) continues to crave more of him. She can honestly say that she’s thoroughly been fucked by Draco Malfoy and still expects him to put his mouth back on her.  
  
“Stop staring at me.”  
  
Hermione doesn’t shy away at his words. After what they did, she can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed by him—not when she’s seen all of him and he’s seen all of her. “What would you do if I asked you to kill me?”  
  
Her words seem to affect him. He tenses up, gripping the needle a little too tightly and drawing blood from his palm. “I’m not going to kill you, Granger.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Draco glares at her, his grey eyes practically creating an iceberg out of her soul. “I thought we promised to never put a stop to _this._ That’s why I took you here! You swore we’d do this for the rest—”  
  
“What does that have to do with my question?”  
  
“Well, how can you expect me to fuck you again if you’re dead, idiot?”  
  
Hermione stares at him, unblinking, for a few moments before a giggle escapes her lips.  
  
“What are you laughing at?”  
  
Chuckling a tad still, Hermione says, “I’m not going to ask you to kill me. It’s just that—well, after last night, I’ve been… Well, actually, I’ve been thinking of it for ages and I—”  
  
Draco rolls his eyes. “Get on with it.”  
  
“I wonder what it feels like to be controlled by you.”  
  
His gaze darkens even more, and she can feel the lust oozing out of his silver eyes. He licks his lower lip, suddenly looking her up-and-down like she’s his next meal. It’s a good thing that Hermione likes to be feasted on.  
  
“What are you saying?”  
  
Desire spreads like wildfire from her core up to the rest of her body when she peers down and sees his growing erection forming from under the sheets. She feels desire pooling low on her stomach, a sweet drip of lustful lava pouring out of her core. Oh, the things he does to her.  
  
When she speaks, it is but a whisper, a moan of utter bliss. “Draco.”  
  
Somehow, that is all her lips can spew. His name. Dragon. _Her dragon._  
  
“Yes?” His voice is a key to her sexuality, opening her up and getting her wet with one simple word.  She feels the rumble in his chest running through her veins, and it is enough to get her completely high.  
  
“Use me.”  
  
And like a stressed out thread, Draco snaps.  
  
He moves quickly, shooting out of his bed and taking her lips with his. She moans in his mouth as soon as their lips meet. He tastes vaguely similar to the moonfruit the Soothsayers back in her home eat whenever they have to take a walk in time—sweet and tangy with a decadent hint of something beyond her control.  
  
After a second, he pulls away from her, and it feels more like torture than separation.  
  
Her eyes begin to well up when she tries to kiss him again and he ignores her efforts. She needs him more than she realizes.  
  
“My mentor,” he starts, breathing heavily against her face. The sounds of his breathing, the feel of his breath on her skin are her lifeline as well as his, “back at Salazar’s Hills taught me that life is a precious thing. It is sacred. It is beautiful. It is pure. It is magic in itself. He told me that life should never be meddled with, that our black magic should be used only with good intention—like, I don’t know, saving someone’s life, I guess—he told me that controlling forms of life is a sin. Life is our magic, he said, and our magic is not other’s lives. He told me to let everyone just live their lives for their own.”  
  
Disappointment churns in her chest, and it is painful and difficult to swallow. “And you believe that as well?”  
  
A sinful smirk spreads out wide on Draco’s beautiful face. “Of course not. Do I look like someone who cares about my mentor’s teachings?”  
  
She beams at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I don’t know. You’re a very attentive student—from what I see in here, at least.”  
  
He scoffs, pressing their very naked bodies closer. “Just because I want to learn about all kinds of magic doesn’t mean I follow any of my mentor’s moral lessons.”  
  
“Didn’t know you actually had morals.”  
  
“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “Now, where were we?”  
  
She licks her lips to attempt to entice him. She only knows it works when she feels his cock brushing against her centre, hard and throbbing. “I wanted you to use me.”  
  
“Do you realize that when you’re… being manipulated, you’ll have absolutely no will?”  
  
“Yes,” she snaps, getting hotter and impatient by the minute. “I’ve read the texts, Draco.”  
  
He leans closer, chuckling against her lips. He gives her a simple kiss, and she wants to lean in for more, but he’s suddenly gone.  
  
She watches him as he moves about the room, his soul beating its fists from inside her and causing her heart to pump a million times faster and a million times louder against her chest.  
  
Draco shoves his head inside his trunk, seemingly searching for something. He holds something up with a triumphant smirk, and when she narrows her eyes to get a better look, she realizes it’s one of his dolls.  
  
“This is you,” he boasts.  
  
She stares intently at the doll in his hand. “Does my hair really look that bad?”  
  
“No.” He takes a seat in front of her. “You’re perfect as you are.”  
  
He grabs her hand and with a knife she didn’t realize he was holding, slices her palm open.  
  
“Fuck!” she exclaims, out of surprise and not pain. It should’ve hurt, but they both seem to be incapable of hurting each other. How is it even possible to get sliced by—  
  
“ _Mwen mande ou padon._ ” He puts her blood all over the doll and whispers more foreign phrases she doesn’t understand. His magic appears on both of his hands, and she knows instantly it’s beginning.  
  
Hermione feels a strange tingling inside her head, vibrating against her psyche. Draco’s soul inside her seems to recognize it, for it falls limp immediately. His ice-cold slithers of magic begin to gather on the tips of her fingers and toes, gradually taking over her limbs.  
  
Her heart seems to freeze slowly until she can’t hear it beat any longer. She is sure she is still alive, however, since Draco’s desire in his grey eyes is as clear to her as everything else.  
  
When it is all over and she’s frozen to the bones, she sees Draco as God. Stars are in his eyes, the moon is in his smile, magic is in the way his hair moves, and he is everything and nothing at once.  
  
Beautiful. Such a beautiful man sitting before her. Smiling kindly.  
  
“Hermione.”  
  
And she shatters.  
  
So much so that she almost doesn’t hear her God’s command. “Kiss me.”  
  
She follows without thinking. She’s not even certain if she can think at the moment. All she knows is Draco. All she needs to know is Draco.  
  
His lips on hers feel like feathers, soft and barely-there, tickling and tingling. She has never been more aware of anything than his hands on her hips, his fingers a snappy wire of electricity all over her skin.  
  
She hears his thoughts in her head, flittering across her mind like gentle encouragements. She hears how he tells her how to move her mouth, how to grip him with her hands, and how to properly worship him.  
  
She does only what he tells her to do and nothing else. Her pleasure doesn’t matter when God himself is sitting before her. Only his pleasure matters. Only he matters to her. Him and his holy commandments.  
  
When he whispers for her to pray for him, she drops to her knees instantly. This is her way of praying to him. This is the purest form of worship.  
  
God caresses her jaw, his fingers pulling her mouth open. Her lips part like the ocean did for Moses, and he crosses her red sea forcibly, with absolutely no apologies.  
  
She takes all of his cock in her mouth, her entire body buzzing with pleasure. It’s like she’s been starved her entire life, and he’s the only one willing to feed her—because he is kind, honourable, and generous. He is God and would never let his believers be hungry for too long. He is the only good God she’s ever recognized.  
  
He holds on to her hair like a king would grip his crown, his hips thrusting in a primal manner, as though he is no longer in control. That is false, of course, her God would always be in control. He controls everything. Everything that is her.  
  
Her eyes don’t tear up when his cock reaches way too down her throat. He can and will never hurt her. He’s given her everything but pain. He can never hurt her.  
  
And so, she takes all of him—his cock, his soul, and all of his godliness. In return, he takes all of her—her mouth, her psyche, and all of her worship.  
  
He takes out his cock out of her mouth right before he comes, ensuring his blessing is splattered across her face. His come feels so warm compared to his icy soul. She accepts it as a baptism, a renewal, and a cleansing of sins.  
  
Afterwards, she is a new woman, a better woman with him in front of her.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
Hermione snaps out of his control, eyes wide as she stares up at him, Draco Malfoy the Pureblood. He who up until a few seconds ago is her God. Her red-faced, panting, and spent God. “Never been better.”

* * *

Finally, after seven years, Hermione is sitting down, face-to-face with the Devil.

He is grotesque, uglier than the books described. She thought the Devil would have a gigantic stance, red and hot all over. She thought evil horns are sprouting out of his scalp and magnificent black wings out of his back. She thought his eyes would be as golden as an angel’s.  
  
Apparently not.  
  
The Devil is less terrifying and impressive than his voice makes him seem. His skin is a strange combination of blue and green, his eyes is red, and his lips is clear. He sits on a serpentine throne, but she’s sure that if he stands up, Draco would be much taller than him. He bears no horns or wings. He is nothing more than a great disappointment.  
  
Scratch that. The Devil is a great and ugly disappointment. He looks like someone she can defeat easily. He looks like someone she can _kill_ easily.  
  
“Mister Malfoy!” the Devil calls out, a sickening grin on his abhorrent face.  
  
Draco forces a charming smile and bows his head respectfully. “You called for us, my lord?”  
  
“Yes,” the Devil hisses. “I’ve heard from the Druids that you and Miss Granger over here seem to be getting along a little too nicely.”  
  
Fucking nosy Druids they are. They finally noticed that Draco was sneaking out of his bedchamber to go to hers last night, and they overreacted. It’s even funnier and maddening when she thinks of all the times she ran out of her room to stay in Draco’s bedchamber and no one blinked an eye.  
  
It seems like there’s an injustice going on in Scholomance. Shocking.  
  
“Too nicely, my lord? Here we thought we’ve been doing you a favour, since when Miss Hermione and I were younger, we did nothing but fight most of the time.”  
  
“Ah, yes, the great progression of your relationship.” The Devil spits out the last word like venom, like he has a personal grudge against it. “How long has this been going on?”  
  
Hermione clears her throat, having had enough of being left out of the conversation. “Since our fourth year, my lord.”  
  
“For almost three years, then,” he acknowledges, his tone dark yet his smile present. “Congratulations to the both of you. Tell me, when is your anniversary? I thought it might be a good idea to throw you a feast or two.”  
  
She clenches her fingers into a fist, barely suppressing her anger. Thankfully, Draco is a much better liar than her. “No need, my lord. To have your permission to continue our loving relationship would be enough for both of us.”  
  
The Devil laughs, and it is a cold, hollow sound that reminds her of the way the wolves back at her home howl at the moon every time it dares to show its entire face to the world. “Loving relationship? Please answer me honestly, Mister Malfoy, do you love this Soothsayer girl?”  
  
Hermione doesn’t really care about whether or not Draco loves her. She’s not some pathetic girl begging on her knees for a boy’s affections. Love will come later, she decides. It’s not like she enjoys the intimacy with Draco—mainly she lives for the sex and the way their souls seem to belong to each other. She doesn’t want a lifetime bond with him. What she wants is his body on top of hers.  
  
The thought of marriage with Draco seems lovely at first sight, but she knows better—she knows that all marriages will soon fall apart, and Hermione hates failure more than anything.  
  
Draco glances at her before answering, “Of course not, my lord.”  
  
“Liar,” the Devil hisses, his pupils turning into snake-like slits. “I am more powerful than you know, Draco Malfoy. I could do magic that’s unknown to the common man. I’ve lived a long life. I know how to read minds and expressions. I know that some part of you holds passionate affection for this woman, and there is nothing more I detest in this world than the inane concept of love.”  
  
Hermione rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. Who taught the Devil to be dramatic? Who hurt him badly enough to make him hate love in all shapes and forms? Was it God? Did God love him less than his other servants and because of it, he feels eternal resentment?  
  
The Devil is a bitter creature. His blood likely tastes of rotten fruit and spoilt milk, his veins and arteries are probably as black as the ashes of a burning night, his bones are hard and cold, impossible-to-touch steel, and his soul is as smooth and dangerous as the whispers of a chasing storm. Hermione hates him.  
  
“My lord, I assure you that I—”  
  
“Your father must be so disappointed. His pride and joy falling in love with a Soothsayer, of all insignificant _things._ ”  
  
“You know my father?”  
  
“I did not ask you to come here to chitchat, Mister Malfoy,” the Devil growls. “I demand you tell me all the details of your relationship with Miss Granger right now.”  
  
Hermione clears her throat, idly raising her hand as though in class. “Pardon me, sir.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Would you like to speak to me as well, or was it only Draco you asked for?” she asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. Frankly, she’s had enough of putting up with the Devil’s bullshit. She’s been here for seven years. She follows the rules she was told to follow. She’s polite to every Druid. She’s anything but respectful to all her supposed superiors, and yet all she gets in return is plenty of arrogance and discrimination.  
  
“You do not speak when you are not—”  
  
“To be quite honest, my lord, I don’t care.” She shrugs nonchalantly. Draco has been causing an awful influence on her behaviour, and unlike before, she just doesn’t give a shit anymore. All she wants right now is to go home.  
  
The Devil clenches his teeth, his glare burning a hole in her soul. “First, I caught you dilly-dallying with another pupil. Second, you disregard the rules by letting Mister Malfoy sleep in your bedchambers like a loose woman. And third, you act improperly right in front of me. You’ve certainly been a naughty girl, Miss Granger.”  
  
Hermione winces at his words, not liking the way he sounds so thrilled and angry at the same time. She chances a glance at Draco and notices him fuming, the temperature in the room dropping as quickly as his irritation grows into fury.  
  
“Now, listen carefully, students,” the Devil begins with the oddest smile. “From now on, both of you are forbidden to even look at each other romantically. No longer are you allowed to discuss matters with each other. I will not tolerate any sort of romantic or lustful relationships in Scholomance, and if we aren’t so close to the end of your studies, I would’ve sent you both home already. But thankfully, I care much about your education. I want you to experience all your potentials, and I am not so bad a man to take that away from you.”  
  
She opens her mouth to let out all of her angry ramblings, but Draco speaks first, “Are we dismissed, my lord?”  
  
The Devil nods in a bored manner, waving a hand to shoo them away. “Yes, go.”  
  
Draco forces a smile so fake that she can see the murder lying openly on top of his lips. “Thank you, my lord.”  
  
Hermione refuses to say anything to him, to the Devil, and begins her exit instantly after being dismissed, Draco following shortly behind her.  
  
Before his demonic guards can open the door, however, the Devil opens his horrendous mouth again and speaks, “Oh, wait, my children!”  
  
From the corner of her eye, she sees Draco’s hands forming hard fists.  
  
“Yes, my lord?”  
  
“Next time you get caught fucking in my corridors, I will terminate both of you, understood?”  
  
Draco nods silently, a burning fury glinting in his eye when he looks at her.  
  
“Am I understood, Miss Granger?”  
  
Not caring they are still within eyesight of the Devil, she swallows and wraps her hand around Draco’s.  “Yes, my lord.”

* * *

"Farewell, scholars,” the Devil speaks from within the walls. “Spread your brilliance and brilliant magic around the world. And a whole lot of congratulations to Harry Potter of the Humans for exceeding his potentials and becoming the best of the best.”  
  
Everyone claps their hands for Harry, even Draco and especially Hermione. Though a little bitter about losing, Hermione is genuinely glad she’s not the chosen one who gets to do the Devil’s bidding. She knows if she stays for another year in this hellhole the Devil calls Scholomance, she would’ve lost it and begun the apocalypse.  
  
“Go now and live the rest of your short and useless lives!”  
  
The other eight ex-scholars run—with the exception of Pansy the Faerie who flies high and gleefully—out the gates instantly, quickly, as though a whole new world is waiting for them outside, but Draco and Hermione tread slowly towards the gates.  
  
She’s more than happy to leave, but walking across the gates truly feels like an ending. And for Hermione, endings are dreadful, tragic, and as sad as can be. Endings are the evilest out of all evils. Endings are tearful and terrible. Endings manipulate you into wanting more and more but never actually hand more over to you.  
  
She was seventeen years of age when she first walked through the very same gates she’s walking out of now. She’s twenty-three now and more powerful than she can imagine. Even though she has grown to hate the place with all of her honest heart, she supposes she will miss it. Sort of.  
  
Inhaling a whiff of reminiscence, Hermione questions the impressive man who stands beside her, almost disbelieving he used to be an entitled immature boy, “Do you miss the world?”  
  
“I suppose,” Draco offers. “I miss Salazar’s Hills—the trees, the leaves, the flowers. It’s beautiful.”  
  
Hermione snorts. “That seems very uncharacteristic of you to say.”  
  
“Well, it is.” He shrugs. “The people are rotten, but the place makes up for it. Why do you ask?”  
  
“I miss the moon,” she admits, sounding defeated, “and the stars. And my family. It’s an awful thing to miss someone or something this much. It hurts a bit, you know?”  
  
“I don’t miss my parents,” he says. “I miss the hills. It feels like a paradise to me and maybe the closest one I’ll ever actually get to. What does your home look like?”  
  
“It’s not special.” She smiles, shutting her eyes and hoping what she imagines can be real life already. “It’s full of swamps and ponds and insects. The people there have beautiful souls, but they’re scared.”  
  
“Of what?”  
  
“Of the future.” That is true. Most Soothsayers in her home look into many years ahead and not like what they’ve seen They spend their lives in remorse and paranoia, trying badly to prevent the awful tomorrow but ending up causing it by the end, anyway.  
  
Then comes silence.  
  
Hermione recalls all the times she saw into the future and promises herself that it will be the first thing she’ll do once she reaches the surface.  
  
“Are _you_ scared?”  
  
She laughs sincerely for the first time in years. She feels utterly delighted. “The only thing I’m afraid of is being unable to do what I’m good at.”  
  
“Well, I assume you’re more than happy now that we’re leaving this God-awful school?”  
  
“Correct.”  
  
Silence overpowers them once more. They let the sounds of their footfalls on the muddy ground start the conversation for them, but they seem to remain quiet as well.  
  
That is until Hermione asks a question that needed to be asked.  
  
“Do you think we’ll see each other again?”  
  
Draco pauses in his tracks at her inquiry before turning to look at her, his eyes much warmer than she’s used to. “Who says we have to separate?”  
  
She blinks unwittingly, not quite knowing what to say next but blurting out words anyway. “What do you want?”  
  
“A lot of things.” He smirks. “I want to have bacon as my everyday meal. I want to tell the Devil to fuck off. I want my father to disappear. I want my mother to… be happy. And ever since I was a boy, I want to take over the world. The entire world. I want everyone to bow before me. God and the Devil on their immortal knees, begging for mercy. How about you?”  
  
“It’s simple, really, what I want,” she states, stepping closer to him. “I want to go home.”  
  
“Well, you’re getting what you want, aren’t you?”  
  
She ignores him. “And to rule over the world.”  
  
Draco laughs, rolling his eyes. “You think you can do that before I can, Soothsayer?”  
  
Hermione shrugs. “I’ve always won against you at everything. Why should this be any different?”  
  
“And what would you do as the ruler of the world?”  
  
“I’ll kill the Devil. I’ll end all suffering. I’ll bring peace. I’ll make a Heaven out of Earth.”  
  
“Very ambitious,” he comments, acting impressed at her words. “Much different than what I’d do.”  
  
“And that is?”  
  
“I guess you’ll just have to find out when I’m sitting on a throne made out of my enemies’ bones, Granger.” Draco grins charmingly yet darkly. She is lost in his smile and when he leans in to kiss her, she almost doesn’t notice.  
  
When their kiss is over, she whispers against his mouth, “I’ll race you there.”  
  
He pulls away, and she’s afraid that will be the last kiss she’ll receive from him in a million years.  
  
Draco walks away from her, but she doesn’t stop him. Behind her eyelids, she catches a glimpse of the future and knows this not to be last time she’ll ever see him.  
  
“I’ll see you later, Granger,” she hears him mumble.  
  
Her soul aches for his presence already, but she resists the pain. “See you.”  
  
Hermione waits for his back to disappear before walking again, deciding that endings are terrible, yes, but they’re worth all the beginnings that come with it.

**Author's Note:**

> This work is written for DFW's GOGO Fest. The aesthetic was made by msmerlin! I just made it black and white 'cause it fits the fic better and added the title card. She's also the person whom I wrote this fic for! She said she liked smut, angst, and dark stuff—and I would like to tell you that I was so relieved when CourtingInsanity set me up with you because I'm into the same things as well! I hope you enjoyed this! 
> 
> Paalam! :)


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